Farmer H Is A Real Pisser

Far be it from Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to speak ill of the ill. Okay. It's not that far at all. But there's something I have to get off my chest, and it ain't the nonexistent hair that my grandpa told me would grow there if I ate salsa on my scrambled eggs.

As you know, Farmer H had back surgery on Monday, to screw together a plate to support the L4 and L5 discs. He was sent home with assorted medical accoutrements. In addition to the wound-sucker vacuum on his back, support hose, back brace, grabber stick, sock-puller-onner, and walker... he had a urinal jug.

Farmer H hangs The Jug on the front of his walker. I can understand how he might not want to get up in the middle of the night and walker his way across the house to the boys' bathroom, which has a higher toilet. So I don't begrudge him relieving himself bedside. He does not expect me to empty The Jug. He does that himself. Which is a good thing. Or so I thought.

Then Farmer H took to using The Jug while he was sitting in his recliner! Right there in the living room! Rather than get up and walker to the bathroom. He's supposed to get up, you know, every 30-45 minutes. His discharge papers said so. But I can goad him into getting up every 2 hours now. Which used to be 1 hour during the first couple days.

On Thursday, I noticed that Farmer H walkered to the bathroom with The Jug half full, and returned with it empty. I did not hear the toilet flush! He leaves the door open, you know. It's an easy sound to catch.

"Don't tell me you're pouring your pee down the sink!"

"It's just a drain, HM. Everything goes out the same pipe."

"NO! That's just wrong! No wonder that bathroom stinks like pee!"

"I run water down it. I have to rinse my Jug anyway."

"That's just wrong! Otherwise, people would just be peeing in their sinks all willy-nilly!"

"Fine. I'll pour it in the toilet."

"The sink still smells!"

"Pour some bleach down it."

Sure. Because what's ONE MORE task for me to fit into my on-call schedule, right?

Anyhoo... Saturday, I served Farmer H his lunch at the cutting block. This has been a recent development. He says it's easier. For HIM, of course. Even though it's also easier for me, that had nothing to do with his decision. It's too hard for him to sit up with his feet on the floor, and juggle a plate and a bowl in his recliner. 

Anyhoo... lunch was his regular bologna and pepper jack cheese on nutty oat bread with yellow mustard, cut in half. And a bowl of carrots/broccoli with Velveeta cheese melted on it. This was around 11:45. He had meds to take at 12:15, which he'd left on the table next to his recliner.

Anyhoo... I was sitting at the kitchen table computing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Farmer H standing between the cutting block and FRIG II. I figured he was getting water in his cup, from the dispenser on the door, to go back and sit down for his meds in the living room. But it was only 11:55. He's not jonesing for his pain pills now that the steroids have relieved his leg pain, but I didn't want him taking his pills early. That's a bad habit to get into.

"What are you doing?"

"Right now? I'm peeing."

"IN THE KITCHEN??? That is SO WRONG!"

"When you have to go, you have to go, HM. Sometimes I really have to go while I'm out in town, or at my store."

"So you're training yourself just to whip it out and go?"

"No. I have to go to a bathroom or port-a-potty for that."

"Which I guarantee are farther away that the BATHROOM JUST AROUND THE CORNER!"

"Whatever..."

"So what are you touching next, with your pee hands?"

"My other half of sandwich."

Seriously? After eating that sandwich, he got up and opened FRIG II to get a little cup of fruit for dessert. So now I have to disinfect the handle of FRIG II.

Oh, and get THIS! After eating, Farmer H burped.

"Excuse me."

As if he is a standard-bearer of manners...